


The Seduction of Dr. John Watson

by XistentialAngst



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: !sexySherlock, !straightJohn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2012-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-10 16:21:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 19,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XistentialAngst/pseuds/XistentialAngst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finally convinces  Sherlock that he needs sex and that if he keeps sabotaging his love life with women, it'll be a deal-breaker.  Sherlock goes through his deductive process and decides that he himself will have to provide John with sex if he's to keep John from marrying and moving out.  Unfortunately, Sherlock is an inexperienced seducer and John is totally straight.  Sherlock goes to Irene for advice on seduction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spiders and Snakes

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Как соблазнить Джона Уотсона](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6475102) by [Sparrowings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparrowings/pseuds/Sparrowings)



> I'm thrilled to finally be on Archive of Our Own! I'll be moving over some of my stories from fanfiction.net. Hope you enjoy them!

John made his move, casually draping his arm around the back of the sofa.

“You sure this programme’s okay with you?” He motioned to the TV which was playing some sort of singing competition.

Jennie smiled rakishly.  “We’re not actually going to watch it, are we?”

John grinned like an idiot.  He felt a hot rush of anticipation.  “Well, I’m sure we could think of something better to—“

Jennie’s eyes suddenly fixed on the couch behind him and went wide.  She screamed like a banshee and scrambled up.

“What?” John whirled around in time to see a tarantula – a good 6 incher – crawling into the place where his arm had just been.  “Sherlock!” He breathed.

“Just a  minute,” he told Jennie, putting out his hands in a calming gesture.  “I’ll handle it.  Just let me get a towel.”

He raced into the kitchen – which he had carefully cleaned of body parts earlier that day.  But as he fumbled for a towel and bowl of some kind he heard a blood-curdling scream from the living room.

“Oh, god,” he muttered.  He ran back into the other room.

Jennie was backing away from the swivel chair, which she had apparently turned to face her whilst backing away from the giant arachnid.  In the seat was a severed head.  It was Algernon, which had been in the freezer for as long as John had lived here.  But now he was on the seat of the swivel chair.

“Gah, gah, gah.” Jennie had her hand over her mouth.  She looked at John with sheer, accusatory horror.

“It’s not what you think,” John began, though he knew it was useless.  “It’s my flatmate. He’s got a sick sense of humor.”

Yup, it was useless.  Jennie grabbed her purse, shot one last laser-death look at John, and fled the flat.

“Oh, God,” John sank down on the floor, head in his hand.  “Ooooh, god.”

“Sherlock,” he said, very loudly, “You are a dead man.”

There was a clatter of heavy boots on the stairs, the stairs going up to _his_ bedroom, and Sherlock bounced into the room.  He looked very pleased with himself.

“That was fun,” he said cheerfully.  He picked up Algernon and made a face. “He is a bit melty though.  I thought the tarantula would move faster.”

“You are supposed. To be.  In Cardiff.” John said, very carefully.

“What, and leave you all alone?  That would be insensitive of me.”

Sherlock held Algernon by a lock of hair and took him into the other room. John heard the freezer door open and shut.

John clenched his fists.  Sherlock had no idea how furious he was.  He had not been kidding when he’s said Sherlock was a dead man.  At the moment he was contemplating the best method.  Fireplace poker?  No, too messy.  Gun?  It was up in his room.  But he didn’t think he could wait that long to murder his flatmate.

Sherlock bounced back into the room.  He flung himself into a chair with a sigh of satisfaction, his long limbs everywhere at once.

“John, don’t thank me.  It was the least I could do.”

“Right, then.” John said succinctly.  “What I’d love best in all the world right now is to strangle you.  But since that’s not rational, I’ll settle for moving out.”

Sherlock’s head whipped around to look at him.  His eyes narrowed.  “You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, Sherlock, I absolutely mean it.  You’ve driven me to it.  What choice do I have?”

“Stay here, obviously.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at John as if he was a dolt.

John rose to his feet and stared at Sherlock as he might a deranged child.  “No, you’ve cancelled out that option.  You’re going to insist on making it impossible for me to date women.  And that is not acceptable.”

Sherlock snorted in distain.  He stared at the fireplace.  “You only date women because you think you should.”

John sputtered in disbelief.  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

“No, let me guess.  It’s the flicker of panic on my face when a woman comes round that gave me away?” John asked sarcastically.  His voice was escalating.  “Or maybe the timidity I’ve shown around the subject since we met?  How I never approach a woman in a bar?  How I never look at them, talk about them? Have I been too bloody _subtle_ for the master observer?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock snapped.

Now John was shouting.  “No, _you’re_ ridiculous.  I pursue women because I bloody well want to find a woman!  It’s not a game, Sherlock.  It means a lot to me.  Are you so incredibly selfish that you can’t see that?”

Sherlock looked at him, confounded. “But John, we have a good… thing, don’t we?” 

“Thing?  A _friendship_ , Sherlock?  Is that what you’re trying to say?”

Sherlock frowned, his fingers playing restlessly on the arm of his chair. “Yes, John, you’re my friend.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to interfere with my sex life.”

Sherlock pursed his lips into a painful line.  “Don’t leave.  I’m sorry about Debbie.  It was a joke.”

“Jennie.”

“I’m sorry about Jennie.”

“And Sandra and Margaret,” John said bitterly.

Sherlock snorted.  “Margaret had a hairy lip and Sandra tittered precisely like a sandpiper.”

“Weren’t you… apologizing just now?  You were, I think.”  

“Truly, I don’t understand what you see in them.  I guess it’s not in me to see it.”

Sherlock sounded thoughtful.  It was the closest they’d ever come to actually talking about this, and John was a bit surprised.  “Go on.  Why should you have to see the attraction?  Can’t you just accept that _I_ am attracted to them?”

Sherlock said nothing.  He drummed his fingers on his chin, as if lost in thought.

“Sherlock?  Either talk about this, or I’m moving out.  Tomorrow.”

“John,” Sherlock growled in frustration. “Can’t you see that I need you available for me?  _When_ I need you?”  It came out very petulant and needy, like the whine of a 12-year-old boy. 

"I exist to be at your beck and call -- til I’m old and gray, I suppose.”

Sherlock looked bewildered by the mockery in his voice.  “But you love it, too.  What we do.  Who we are.”

John squeezed the bridge of his nose with one hand.  He had to remember that emotionally, Sherlock was a child.  He didn’t get normal human relationships.  And anyway, he was right.  John did love who they were.  Most of his anger melted away into resigned frustration.  How was he to deal with this overbearing, overgrown, obnoxiously brilliant baby?

John fell onto the couch.  He shook his head but didn’t say anything.

Sherlock pressed.  “John, we’ll go on as before.  It’s… perfect.”

John gave him an incredulous look from under his brow.  “With all your illustrious powers of observation, you really can’t see that it may be perfect for you, but it isn’t perfect for me?”

Sherlock shifted uneasily.  He didn’t like to have his powers of observation called into question.  He went into analytic mode.

“But it is perfect for you. On our very first case, you lost your limp and your tremor.  You need the danger, as I do.  When we’re on a case, you’re animated.  Your eyes sparkle.  You laugh.  You get a high from it.  You like writing your blog.  You pour over it at night with the teensiest smile on your lips and this gleam of satisfaction in your eyes.”  Sherlock waved his fingers, gleamingly.  “You become utterly absorbed when you write about our cases.  You pour over every word.  You pretend to be annoyed with the fan mail, but in a day when there is none, you’re out of sorts, like a child deprived of its blankie.”

John snorted, but he blushed, too.

“It strokes your ego that we’ve gained a big following.  You like being recognized in the streets.  And you don’t even mind living with me.  You like me.  You admire me greatly, in fact, enough to put up with body parts in the fridge and my rages.  You… take care of me.  When I’m injured you sew up my wounds.  You make me eat.” 

John conceded with a tilt of his head.  “Yes, all that is true.”

“Don’t you see?  No one else has ever…”

“Where’s my violin?”

“It’s out being repaired.  Remember?”

Sherlock looked astonished.  “Is it?  Who allowed that?”

“You did.  Three broken strings and you couldn’t be bothered to fix them.”

Sherlock paced the room twice and then flounced back into the chair.  “I don’t know why the bloody hell I did that,” he muttered petulantly.  His arse hit the cushion and his heels hit the ottoman simultaneously in a maneuver than never ceased to amaze.

John sighed.  He wasn’t about to be distracted and forget what Sherlock had almost admitted.  “Look, Sherlock.  Everything that you said is true.  I do highly, highly value our friendship.  I do.”

Sherlock didn’t look at him.  His face was closed.  “Well then?  If you meet a woman, and fall in love, you’ll marry and move out.”

John nodded.  “Yes, that’s possible.”

Sherlock whipped his head to glare at him accusatorily.  “You don’t see any contradiction there?  Either you like our life together or you want a new one.  You can’t have both.”

“Sherlock, even if I married, we’d remain friends.”

“Oh, yes, I see. You’d pop round on the odd month for a pint, send postcards from your honeymoon, a fruitcake at bloody fucking Christmas?”

The bitterness of Sherlock’s voice surprised John.  Not that he hadn’t heard Sherlock be bitter before.  It was second nature.  But this felt deeper somehow, more personal. 

Suddenly John realized that he was treading on thin ice.  It struck him what Sherlock was revealing.  Sherlock didn’t have friends.  He had no one.  And now he had John.  Somehow he’d become a colleague, surrogate nursemaid and best friend all in one.  Sherlock wasn’t going to let that go easily.  He was being _possessive_.  He was jealous of the women, any woman, and he’d use his clever mind and his reprehensibly selfish lack of empathy to get his own way – indefinitely – if John let him. 

As much as that angered and frustrated John, the doctor in him also understood that Sherlock simply wasn’t capable of seeing what was wrong with what he was doing.  And that was pitiable. 

John pulled patience up from his deepest cells and took a deep breath.  He sat forward, elbows on his knees and his hands neatly folded.  He sucked in his lower lip and gave Sherlock his sternest ‘now listen’ look.  He started to talk several times and failed.  Finally he began.

“Sherlock.  You fail to understand how important it is for me to have a relationship with a woman.”

Sherlock shrugged.  “Because it isn’t important.”

“No, listen to what I’m saying.  Is it.  It’s very, very important to me.”  John sought for words.  “There are things that our friendship can’t give me.  Things _I need_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked bored.  “Sex, I suppose.” 

"Quite a lot, actually.”  

Sherlock looked away, eyes narrowing.  “There are arrangements that could be made.  Women you could pay.  They don’t have to mean anything.”

Bloody hell.  John tried to stay patient.  “But I don’t want to have casual sex with a prostitute.  I want a real, normal woman, an attractive woman, someone who finds me attractive, someone who’ll be there night after night.”

The frown was back between Sherlock’s brow.  “But _why_ , John?”

John knew that Sherlock was really, truly asking.  And it was an unusual show of vulnerability.  Normally, Sherlock would bluster on as if he knew all about ‘emotions’ and ‘sex’ and relations between men and women, as if he saw them as he might see a frog’s innards whilst dissecting it.  But this time, he was admitting that he _really didn’t know_. 

John struggled for a way to explain it to a man who obviously felt no carnal needs at all.  “It’s like… eating.  Or sleeping.  I _need_ it.”

Sherlock tilted his chin away but kept his eyes on John, giving him a classic ‘you’re putting me on’ look.  “Eating and sleeping?  Don’t exaggerate.  You’ve be dead if you didn’t eat or sleep.  I’ve never found a corpse dead of coitus denial.  Most people go through life perfectly fine without it.”

“Not most people, Sherlock.  You.  You go through life perfectly fine without it.  But I’m not like you.”

Sherlock still looked unconvinced.  “On a scale from one to—“

“Nine.”

Sherlock huffed a derisive laugh.  “Nine!”

“Yes, nine.  If eating and sleeping are ten on the must-have scale, sex is a nine.  Maybe an eight in my worst hour, like when I was severely wounded in hospital.  Definitely a nine right now.” 

“But that’s….” Sherlock truly looked bewildered.

“Yes.  It is.  So you see how incredibly homicidal I will get if you continue to do everything in your power to deny me it.  You’ve heard about cornered rats?  Think about it.”

Sherlock frowned.  He was silent for a long moment.  “I’m sorry, John.  I…”

He didn’t finish _.  I didn’t know._   No, he had no clue.  John stared at him in wonderment.  Not for the first time, he tried to fathom how a man like Sherlock – a man tall and well-formed, good-looking, and so fucking brilliant... in other words, a human with so many physical gifts, could have ended up so utterly and completely damaged.  But then, if he weren’t like that, Sherlock would not be Sherlock, and he would not be so utterly fascinating.

John pushed on.  “It’s not just the sex, Sherlock.  It’s affection.  Love, for god’s sake.  The way a couple is with one another.  Snuggling on the couch, rubbing each other’s feet, a kiss in the morning whilst being handed a glass of juice, being there when the other person is sick, knowing that person will always be there, because they love you unconditionally.  I don’t want to grow old without that.”

“I’m there when you’re sick,” Sherlock said quietly.

Trust him to pick the one thing out of the list that he could relate to and dismiss the rest.  John thought about the times Sherlock had come into his room to waken him from the nightmares, just sitting on the bed til John regained sanity. 

“Sometimes, yes, I’ll grant you that one.  But… it’s just not enough for me.  I know you don’t understand those needs… the needs I have for intimacy with another human being.  But this life… this ‘bachelor friendship’ is simply not enough.  It’s not.”

He looked straight into Sherlock’s eyes as he said it.  He didn’t want to be cruel, but he had to bloody well make it clear.  He was tired of the constant interference.  He had to make Sherlock understand that it really was a deal-killer.

Sherlock had his head turned, staring out the window.  His face was impassive but his hands were clenched.  It seems he’d finally heard it.  John felt a pang of regret.  Sherlock was his best friend.  He didn’t want to make him feel rejected.  He relented, a bit.

“Sherlock, I love our friendship, and I plan to have it always, no matter what.  But I need to have a woman in my life.  And that’s the end of it.”

John got up and started to leave the room.  He was stopped by the deep, gravely sound of Sherlock’s voice. It was soft but utterly compelling.  “What are _we_ then, John?  If sex is a nine…”

John leaned against the doorway and thought about it.  “Eight,” he said with some surprise.

He did love it.  He did.  And he seriously hoped he could make Sherlock see reason; that he would not be forced to choose.

 

 


	2. Violin

The next morning, John came downstairs to the strains of the violin. So Sherlock had fetched it already. He must have woken up the music shop owner at an ungodly hour. He was standing at the window in his dressing gown. And John could tell, from his tense stance, and the manic intensity with which he played, that he was in one of his moods.

"Right then," John said, "off to work." Sherlock did not look at him.

That night, when John got home, Sherlock was still at the violin, still in the window, still in his dressing gown. John thought he likely had not moved from the spot all day. He worried, but he didn't say anything. He lay in his bed listening to the sounds of the violin all night, getting as little sleep as Sherlock. He wanted to do something, to comfort to Sherlock, to break him out of this black mood. But there was nothing to say.

The next morning, before John left, he paused downstairs. Sherlock lifted his hand from the instrument momentarily, his bow hand shaking with fatigue, but he didn't turn.

"Please do me a favor and eat something. Sleep. Please, Sherlock."

Sherlock went back to playing.

That evening, when John came home, Sherlock was gone. He hadn't left a note.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was on a ferry headed to the Isle of Wight. He hated the country, but he had to get away to think. And the water soothed him. Maybe he wouldn't stay on the island. Maybe he'd just ride the ferry back and forth for days on end. He couldn't seem to get his head around things in the flat, the flat he shared with John. And he had to. He had to think this through. He stood on the deck, his coat wrapped tight around him, willing the sea spray to strike his face. Something had to wake him up.

He was deeply shaken. He wanted to tear things up with his hands, shred them to itty bitty fragments. He wanted to tear his hair out. He wanted to roar bloody murder at anyone who dared approach him, like an escaped lunatic. The ticket taker, for example.

John. Had. Needs. Sherlock had never fully understood it before. But John needed a woman, he needed sex, he needed… touching. What did he call it? "Affection". And he needed it enough that he would leave Sherlock to get it.

He would leave. It was only a matter of time. And probably not long, either. Women – all women – wanted to find husbands, someone to hang their hat on for the rest of their lives. John was easy pickings. He was a sitting duck. He was a platter of roast beef with 'eat me' written on it with whipped cream in a room of starving prisoners of war. He was a doctor – women loved doctors, such a fat prize to bring home to mummy. And John was sweetly attractive in a sincere, doesn't-know-it way. Women couldn't resist that. Or Sherlock assumed they couldn't. Could they? And John was genuinely good and caring. Another log on the fire of impending total fucking destruction.

Sherlock brooded. He fumed.

John submitted to him in some things, but he wouldn't in this; he'd made it clear. And if Sherlock pushed too hard, John would move out. Done. Take the pill or the gun. There was no way out. If he kept interfering, John would leave. If he didn't interfere, John would find someone sooner or later – most likely sooner - and move out.

The thought filled Sherlock with a choking dread that frightened him. When had he come to need John Watson? Why did it feel like his liver and maybe a lung would move out with him? He didn't like the feeling. At all. He hated the loss of control, the sense that his happiness, even his sanity, hinged on someone else, someone he had no control over, someone who wouldn't stay. Hadn't he avoided being in such a damnably fucked position for most of his whole life?

John had tricked him into it, somehow. From the very first, there had been a connection. And John didn't run, didn't mind his rudeness, called him brilliant, was his companion in the chase. And oh such a magnificent foil he was! Sherlock knew that he himself was The One, he had no modesty about that. They solved cases due to his own powers of deduction. And yet, he shone best when John was there, like a diamond in the perfect setting. John was easy to get along with, didn't mind his tempers, took care of him. Most people he'd ever met regarded him as a freak. And in all these ways, simply by being so… John, such a fit for him in nearly every way, John had goaded Sherlock into… what? Caring? Growing dependent on him? Becoming accustomed to having a someone in his life? A friend in need and all that rubbish? He didn't want to care, damn it!

Sherlock gripped the railing of the ferry so hard it hurt.

And right at that moment, Sherlock came to a crisis point. He had to make a decision. And the choice was this:

He could untangle himself from John. He could cool towards him, harden his heart, let him go off and marry some tart, not care. He could. It would not be easy. It would kill something inside him. But Sherlock could do it. He considered it, turning it in his mind like a 3D model. But instantly he saw what he would become if that happened. No one could replace John. And even if by some miracle he found someone who could, he'd never let himself risk being hurt like this again. He'd be alone. Over time, he'd turn into the cruelest, emptiest, most bitter aspect of himself, someone whom no one would ever befriend, touch, reach out to, ever again, because he'd be a monster. Yes, a monster. The picture frightened even him.

Or…. Or, what? Or - he could fight to keep John.

Sherlock let that thought roll around in his mind. The challenge of it intrigued him. He was, after all, Sherlock Holmes. If he put his mind to it, he could accomplish anything, couldn't he? He's solved some of the greatest crimes in modern history. He could surely solve a minor HR problem like this.

He drummed his long fingertips on the ferry's railing. Yes, but how?

The facts listed themselves out in his head as if on a teleprompter.

What John likes about our relationship:

1\. The cases

2\. The blog (i.e. boasting about the cases)

3\. My mind

4\. My personality (John finds me amusing and intriguing, which I am)

5\. The flat

6\. Mrs. Hudson

7\. Lestrade

8\. Hanging around, watching telly

9\. My violin

What John does not get from our relationship that he needs:

1\. Sex

2\. Physical affection

3\. Romantic love

Sherlock saw the list in his mind. He examined each item strategically. He would love to dismiss the important of sex and physical affection, as he had always done. But John had convinced him that they were not dismissible. Nor would John accept the obvious solution, a prostitute.

Could Sherlock talk John into that? If he could, that would solve problem #1. Perhaps he could find someone steady. An older widow. A prostitute seeing the end days of her career, someone to give John release in a more… motherly fashion. She'd have to be someone who wouldn't claim too much of John, would never be a threat. Someone who might show up, say, three times a week, for an hour. Alright, two hours. No, ninety minutes. And she'd leave the rest of the time to Sherlock. It was possible.

But that didn't solve problem #2 and #3. Affection, love. Sherlock remembered every word John had said, for they'd cut him deeply, pointing out what he was not. Snuggling on the couch, rubbing each other's feet, a kiss in the morning whilst being handed a glass of juice, being there when the other person is sick, knowing that person will always be there, because they love you unconditionally.

John wanted a bonded relationship, presumably for life, though they didn't usually last that long, did they? And there was no way John could have a bonded mate and Sherlock could still have John in his life completely, the way he wanted John, the way they were now.

Someone approached his elbow. A woman spoke, "It's a bit chilly out here isn't it?" Her voice was pleasant, an invitation for a chat, and more.

Sherlock didn't look at her. "Piss off or I will throw you overboard."

The woman left.

Sherlock stood on the deck and worked on the problem, green eyes staring into the green roiling waves. And when the ferry arrived at the Isle of Wight, he did not move but stayed on it until it turned around and went back the other way. In his mind palace, he vaguely become aware of his legs locking up from being in one position for too long; he shifted.

And an answer came to him, the way they sometimes did, dismissable, laughable at first, but refusing to be put away until Sherlock relented it and examined it, objectively, rolling it around in his mind.

He, himself, Sherlock Holmes, could be John's companion and lover.

It was an idea both terrifying and absurd. He wanted to toss it away immediately. But it would be such a… complete solution. He made himself dissect it, assemble the facts.

What would really be required, after all?

1\. He'd have to be physically affectionate. Snuggle on the couch. Kiss John good morning on the cheek. Hand him juice, perhaps once a week.

Could Sherlock do those things? He didn't think he'd be capable with most people. But with John? John had touched him in a way no one had in years - companionably slinging an arm around his shoulder in the pub, his soft, careful fingers dressing Sherlock's many cuts and bruises, feeling his forehead for fever. He'd even massaged Sherlock's shoulders a few times when Sherlock was very tense. Sherlock hadn't minded. In fact, he liked it. He'd never admit it, but he liked John's touch a lot. He liked it when John was near, physically close. It was… comforting. Reassuring. It… soften him somehow. Could he snuggle on the couch with John and watch telly? Hold him against his chest?

Sherlock decided that he probably could. He could definitely tolerate it. He might even get to like it.

He went to work on to the next item, much trickier this one.

2\. He'd have to have sex with John, probably frequently, and he'd have to put on a convincing show of enjoying it.

Sherlock had never thought about having sex with a man before. He himself didn't want or need sex. But could he change? He slowly lowered the lids over his eyes and made himself consider it with unflinching honestly.

There were mornings when he woke up with an erection. There were restless nights where he masturbated, hoping for some physical relaxation (it never worked). He was not physically incapable of sex. Nor was he immune to the normal biological responses of a healthy male. He simply disregarded those lustful urges as much as possible. He was a mental creature. His body was merely a vehicle and its needs a nuisance to be tended when absolutely necessary.

But still, he was physically capable of… erection, stimulation, ejaculation. He had a tongue. He had hands. He had all the orifices typically used for such things. And he was a quick study. After all, he'd mastered fencing.

But was he mentally capable? Could he bear it?

He took a deep breathe, eyes still closed, and made himself picture it.

John Watson, naked in his bed. Naked, on top of…

He eyes flew open. He laughed out loud. No, it was ludicrous! It would never work. Absurd!

The ocean was impassive. Sherlock examined the problem from other angles for over an hour, trying to work the nut loose a different way. But in the end he came back to the same illusive solution.

He steeled himself to consider it once again. He shut out the fear and his own discomfort, made himself focus on the images again. He gripped the railing, grit his teeth and closed his eyes.

John Watson, naked on his bed, his bare chest, slim hips, muscular waist, there, against the white sheets. John's eyes were hungry, his pupils dilated, his lips parted with desire. His hips thrust up, his member was erect, ready…. Sherlock could see it as clearly as if it were really in front of him. In his mind's eye he forced his own long fingers to reach out and slowly run up John's thighs. His thumbs circled at the top, the softest, sweetest part of him, just below the scrotum. John thrust his hips with pleasure, looking at Sherlock as if he wanted to eat him, begging.

For God's sake, Sherlock, don't torture me. Please, please taste me.

In his mind's eye Sherlock's bent his head and took the sweet-hard tip of it in his mouth, toyed with the underside of the glans with his tongue, looking up to see John's expression of rapture, need, adoration. John was his. John wanted him, craved him. And a man that looked at him like that was a man who would never leave.

On the deck of the ferry, Sherlock was gripping the rail with white-knuckled hands. His eyelids flew open. He examined his chemical reactions to the fantasy. He had an erection. Correction, he had a raging erection. In fact, he couldn't recall ever having felt such a hot, powerful surge of lust in his life.

He smiled. It would seem that he was mentally capable of being John's lover. In fact, the idea had… merit.

His reaction surprised him. Why would he want John Watson, like that, when he had never wanted anyone at all, like that? Was he gay? Was that what this friendship had been about all the while?

He recalled John's eyes, so trusting and guileless, that familiar, endearing face, the soft blond hair, the body, the form that was one of the few in his entire life that he felt comfortable with, that one person he had ever entirely… trusted?

He loved John. That was all. He wanted to make John happy. He didn't want John to need or want anyone else. There it was.

But there was one hurdle left, and it was a tickler.

3\. Sherlock was a man. John was straight.


	4. The Expert

The white cabana glowed in the moonlight. The Woman had just stepped out of a pre-bed bath and donned her dressing gown when there was a light rapping on her door.

She stilled, fear coursing through her. She silently went to the dresser and withdrew her gun. She slipped out the back door and padded on silent bare feet around the bougainvillea along the side of the cabana. She peeked around the corner, gun cocked.

Standing there, in the moonlight, was a tall man with sharp cheekbones. Alone.

"It's me," he said. "I flew 10 hours to get here, spent a thousand pounds in the market getting information and endured an arse-bruising camel ride. If you shoot me it will officially be a really bad day."

Irene lowered her gun, jaw dropped open in shock. "Sherlock! How did you find me?"

She didn't really care. She was damned glad to see him, to see anyone from home, but especially Sherlock. She disengaged herself from the bougainvillea and threw herself into his arms. He tolerated her embrace, even smiled, sweetly, but after a moment he pushed her gently away.

"I need your help," he said, looking off into the night as if afraid to meet her eyes.

"Come in." She shivered in the cool evening breeze and opened the door.

"So?" Irene adler asked, when they were settled and she'd given him a drink. Well, she was settled in a chair. He was pacing nervously. She'd never seen the cool, impassive Sherlock Holmes like this.

"It was ridiculous to come all this way but there was no one else I could turn to. And I need someone with your area of… expertise."

Irene cocked an eyebrow. This was interesting. "Yes?"

Sherlock stopped pacing and looked at her. It seemed to take a force of will for him to speak.

"I need to know how to seduce someone."

"Oh." Irene was surprised. He'd come all this way to talk about sex?

He hesitated. "I need to know how to seduce… a man."

"Oh!" Irene watched him, an amused arch to her brows. "Well, Sherlock, in my experience, that's not all that difficult. Men are ridiculously easy."

Sherlock flushed. "I need to know how to seduce a… straight man."

"Oh, yes, I see." She studied him carefully. "Tricky business. Are you sure you want to do that?"

"Yes," Sherlock said immediately.

Irene was a little surprised – and disappointed. She hadn't thought him gay. There had been a spark between them once. But perhaps he was bi. She studied his eyes, then smiled a disparaging smile.

"You're in love," she said.

Sherlock said nothing. She waited, watching him. After all, he had come to her.

"I need to…" Sherlock faltered. "Make him stay."

Irene sighed. "John Watson."

"Can you help me or not?" Sherlock sneered, a challenge. "You do know how it's done?"

Irene looked him up and down. He was magnificent, tall and lean. And yet such an innocent in his own way. She wasn't sure which was sexier. Alright, she knew damn well. It's was definitely the innocent that got her. She licked her lips with a slow seductive tongue.

"I can teach you," she said. "I can have him eating out of your hand."

"Begging," Sherlock prompted.

"Oh most definitely begging," Irene said.

Sherlock smiled.


	5. Homecoming

Sherlock had been missing for two weeks. Lestrade had put an APB out on him. John had searched every hospital and morgue in London. The only thing that had kept him from going around the bend was a text from Mycroft, a week ago, that simply said:

He's traveling. He's fine.

It had reassured John enough that when he heard the familiar strident footsteps on the stairs and the door burst open to the force of nature that was Sherlock Holmes – hyped up, cheerful and… glowing? - John was able to restrain himself from turning into a blubbering heap. He was able to merely cross his arms, and glower.

"Where the HELL have you been?" he demanded. "Do you have any idea the worry you've put us all through?"

"John," Sherlock said joyfully, ignoring the scolding.

The smell of London smog mixed with the air of the sea wafted off Sherlock's coat as he strode over to John in two strides - and kissed him squarely on the mouth. It lasted no more than a second, a firm, dry-mouthed kiss, but it made John gape in shock. Kissed! By Sherlock Holmes! But Sherlock was already off again, in one of his manic moods, tearing off his coat and throwing up his arms.

"Ah, Baker Street! It's good to be HOME!"


	6. Icing

John came home from work the next day and went into the kitchen to get a drink. In the sink was a large mixing bowl filled with a red, gooey mixture.

"Aw," John groaned, feeling his bile rise. "Aw – Sherlock!"

Yes, his flatmate was definitely back.

The man himself bounced into the kitchen. "You're home. That's unfortunate."

"Nice to see you, too. What is this in the sink? It looks like…"

"It was a surprise, but now you've ruined it."

"By coming home from work at 7pm, just like every other day." John said ironically. "How thoughtless of me."

"Since you're here – taste."

Sherlock stuck a long finger in the bowl and scooped up a big wad of the red stuff. He held out his finger to John with arched brows, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

John licked his lips nervously. "Sherlock, I'm not going to taste that."

Sherlock's face fell. "Why not? Don't you trust me?"

"Not really, no."

"John," Sherlock scolded. "I assure you this is 100% edible. I made it myself. Now taste."

John blinked at the finger with goop on it. "That's supposed to reassure me? That you made it yourself?"

"Taste!" Sherlock enunciated clearly, as if John were hard of hearing.

"You could at least get me a spoon," John protested.

"A spoon!" Sherlock sneered, as if John had just suggested bringing a 3 piece orchestra into the room. "Who has time to hunt for a spoon!"

"We are in a kitchen," John pointed out. Then again, it was their kitchen. There'd been days when he couldn't find a spoon to save his life.

"Open. Up." Sherlock said in a demanding growl.

Hesitantly, John opened his mouth. Sherlock stuck his finger in, but he didn't just stick in it and remove it. He swirled it on John's tongue a bit, and left it there.

"Mmm," John said, trying to draw his head back.

"Get it all," Sherlock insisted, following him. "I can feel it's still on there."

John gave him a murderous look, but there was not much he could say with a finger stuck in his mouth.

He made himself suck on the finger a little, to get off the tacky icing. He felt himself blushing furiously as Sherlock withdrew.

"There! Now what is it? Tell me!"

John looked daggers at him. "Icing. Cherry. And if you ever again-"

"Very good, John. And what do you suppose I'm going to do with this… bowl… of cherry… icing."

He said it with a kind of malicious glee and… something else, something horribly suggestive. John blinked at him. He smothered a panicked laugh. If Sherlock didn't look so damnably excited and… innocent… he'd have to punch him in the face about now.

"I- have no idea." John said, hoping to god he really didn't.

Triumphantly, Sherlock reached over, without looking, and punched the button on an old breadbox. The lid fell open revealing… an uniced cake.

"Et voila!" Sherlock said.

"It's a cake," said John.

"Yes, John, very good. It is a cake. I made it for you. For your birthday." Sherlock literally clapped his hands. John hadn't seen him this excited since he'd cornered a serial killer in an unlit tube car.

John scratched his head. "Sherlock, my birthday is in October."

"It's a bit late, I grant you. Rather ungenerous of you to point it out."

"Yes. Tiresome of me. Sorry."

"I'll supposed we'll have to find something to put the icing on with," Sherlock said thoughtfully. He looked at John's hand.

"Yes, knife, coming up." John said, throwing open a drawer. Miraculous, it held a knife.


	7. The Changeling

Something had shifted since Sherlock's return, something major. John knew it, yet he couldn't put his finger on exactly what it was, and it was driving him insane.

He knew why Sherlock had left. He'd been in one of his moods, a fit of pique because John had laid down the law about the women in his life. But John knew it had been more than a fit of pique. He had the feeling he'd hurt Sherlock, truly. And the whole time Sherlock had been away, John had worried that he do something, something… crazy.

But it was as if all that had never happened. The returning Sherlock was as manic as John had ever seen him. He was charming, he was brilliant, he was witty, his laugh was the most delicious, infectious thing John had ever heard.

And he was doing un-Sherlock like things. There was the cake, for starters. And last night he'd insisted on joining John, Lestrade and a few of Lestrade's colleagues for drinks, whereas normally he'd rather have bamboo spikes put up his fingernails then endure their company socially. Furthermore, he'd proceeded to have the time of his life, charming them all, holding the attention of the entire pub, being witty but not overbearing and obnoxious for once. Magnetic.

John had noticed Lestrade watching Sherlock with the same mesmerized/confused expression John felt was on his own face these days. Who is this Sherlock? For they had never seen him before.

Sherlock was even physically… more beautiful somehow. Not that John really wanted to notice. But it was hard not to. He was combing his hair differently and more often. He went without his jacket. He was wearing some kind of very faint moistness on his lips – lip balm? His tight, button-up shirts were the same as they had been, but he was wearing them differently, unbuttoned to his mid chest and rolled up at the sleeve. Without a jacket, their tightness noticeably clung to his slim build. And his pants, well they had to be new, didn't they? They sort of slung below his waist in a way John had ever noticed before, a way that made you practically see the navel that had to ride just above the belt bucket.

It was too bad Sherlock didn't crave female companionship, because in his current state, he could have had anyone he wanted. John couldn't help but notice the fact with envy. If he, John, could manage that sort of sexy way of wearing his clothes, he'd be laid every day of the week. And by god, did he need it.

"But where did you go? What did you do? Obviously something happened." John asked for the hundredth time. "You've changed."

They were in the kitchen and Sherlock was looking through his microscope at some sort of animal hair. The rolled-up sleeves on his purple shirt revealed a pale and muscular arm. The pale gleam was at his chest, too, where his top buttons were undone. John looked away.

"Umm," Sherlock agreed. His eyes flitted to John's left and then he rose in a single graceful move. "Pardon." He leaned over John, onto him, to reach over and grab a blank slide from the end of the table.

John frowned. Sherlock didn't used to keep those there.

"Sherlock!" John complained as Sherlock's fingers had difficulty latching onto the slide. His chest was pressing into John's for a long moment. John could feel his chest rise and fall as he breathed. He even thought he even felt… a nipple? He was horrified to feel a slight stirring in his groin.

"Sherlock, get off me!"

"Sorry," Sherlock gave him an apologetic smile. He drew back, his left hand briefly touching John's wrist as he did so, as if to steady himself. A light caress. John blinked at the sensation.

"And why do you keep touching me?" John asked, his voice sounding a little shrill.

"What?" Sherlock looked up at him blankly.

"Since you came home you keep… touching me. Like that. Inadvertently."

Sherlock chuckled. "John!" his tone dismissing the idea as nonsense.

John pressed the bridge of his nose together with one hand, shakily expelling a breath.

"Alright, never mind. I'm going out. I need some… air."

"Don't go far," Sherlock purred in his deep baritone as John put on his coat.

John stopped at the door. "What? What did you say? Why not?"

"I need your help tonight," Sherlock said, looking back into the microscope. "I have some tracking to do. The docks. In two hours."

"Two hours," John repeated, feeling frustrated. He needed to go have a drink. He needed to meet a woman. He needed to get laid. Two hours was not enough time.

"Back here in two hours, please John," Sherlock said perfunctorily. He did not look up. "It could be dangerous."

John sighed and went out.


	8. Night of the Assassins

They were at the docks. It was dark. Sherlock had a torch, but he refused to turn it on.

"Who, exactly, are we tracking?" John asked, for the third time.

"Shhhh!" Sherlock hissed. He was totally alert, like a stalking cat. He motioned John forward.

They crouch-ran past the front of a warehouse. They both hugged the wall.

"Do you have your gun?" Sherlock asked, very slowly and softly.

"Yes," John said, his pulse quickening. "Moriarty?"

Sherlock gave him a look, his lips pressed tight, and shook his head once. If John were to interpret that look, he'd guess it meanT 'worse than that'. Worse than Moriarty? How was that possible? John wanted to ask, but clearly silence was golden at the moment.

Fuck, if it was this serious, why hadn't Sherlock briefed him about this before they left?

They ran in the shadows up the north side of the building, towards the Thames. Twice Sherlock, who was in front, stopped to flatten his back against the wall, pressing John against the wall with one long-fingered hand against his stomach at the same time. John didn't hear anything.

He shook his head at Sherlock – what? Sherlock just gave him that 'this is serious' look again and took off. They were just approaching a dock when Sherlock suddenly froze. John nearly ran into the back of him. Sherlock stood still for a long moment.

"I don't hear anything," John whispered.

"Shhhh!" Sherlock said.

And after long minutes of listening, there was something, the sound of footsteps.

"Quick!" Sherlock hissed.

He yanked on John's arm, pulling him into an opening John hadn't even noticed. It was a narrow gap between the two buildings, so narrow, in fact, there was only room for one of them to walk, shoulders brushing the walls on either side. But they weren't walking. Sherlock pressed John up against the hard brick, squeezing the two of them into a space barely wide enough for one. John strained to control the thudding of his heart and hear the noises beyond. Footsteps approached. A security guard. John got a glimpse of him as he went past the gap. The man kept going.

As the footsteps faded, John expected Sherlock to let him go, but he didn't. Sherlock's head remained cocked up, listening, his eyes on the opening. Slowly, as if in slow motion, and without looking at him, Sherlock raised his hand up and placed it over John's mouth, stifling him.

The hand was soft and strong at the same time and it smelled – tasted - of bricks and Sherlock. John glared. He hadn't been about to say anything, for God's sake. He was a fucking soldier! He wouldn't give them away.

Sherlock turned his eyes to John's. They were full of danger and excitement… but mostly excitement.

Something in them stole John's breath away. And suddenly he was acutely aware that Sherlock's body was pressed entirely, and tightly, against his. He could feel Sherlock's long thighs pressed against his thighs and hips, felt Sherlock's stomach, his chest. The underside of Sherlock's arm, the one with the hand pressed against his mouth, was intimately against John's chest. The palm of Sherlock's hand, large and hot, pressed against his mouth. And the other hand was down at his side, his fingers resting lightly on John's wrist, as if cautioning him not to go for his gun.

It didn't feel like Sherlock was against him awkwardly, like two men stuck in an uncomfortable position. It felt… deliberate, secure. It… fit.

And then he felt… God, let that be the torch. For the love of all that's holy, let that be the torch!

Sherlock leaned his head in and whispered close John's ear. The low, baritone thrum of Sherlock's voice vibrated through him.

"John, listen to me. There are two security guards patrolling this building, John. They're trained assassins. If they see us, they'll shoot first and ask questions later. John. Do you understand?"

John froze under the assault of Sherlock's words. There was the caress of Sherlock's breath on his sensitive ear, his mouth close, so close, that John imagined he could almost feel his lips. And there was the deep, rich voice itself that seemed to go into his eardrum and then straight down the middle of him, right to his groin. Was it that voice saying his name… or the threat of danger that sent the blood rushing through him? Whatever it was, it was… hot. He made a small whimper that was supposed to be an acknowledgment. And - realized he was hard. Oh, no. Oh, this was not happening.

Danger, danger, danger, danger. Guns, death, blood, dead baby ducks, oh, fuck.

He met Sherlock's eyes. The light coming in from the opening shone on them just right. There was something in those green eyes, for just a moment, a flare of heat that seem to blaze across the space between them and enter him, combusting, making him even harder. Slowly, slowly, Sherlock peeled his hand away from John's mouth. John gasped for air.

Kiss me, John thought incoherently, as Sherlock's eyes studied his. John's mouth felt naked and cool in the night air. And Sherlock's mouth was so close, and that full, soft lower lip looked so tender…

But Sherlock was wiggling away, a moment of exquisite friction and then he was gone, slipping back through the crack.

John groaned and banged his head on the brick wall. For the love of god. Did I really just think 'kiss me' at Sherlock Holmes? What is the matter with me? I'm losing my bloody mind!

8b. Back at the Flat

Back in the flat, John threw his coat down violently. "What were we doing there? Why didn't you tell me we'd run into trained assassins?"

"I didn't want to worry you," Sherlock said in a bored voice. He took off his coat and stretched, hands over his head, shirt buttons nearly popping over his chest, the hem pulling out of his pants. For some reason, this made John madder.

"Goddamn, we're supposed to be partners. You don't take your partner into a situation like that without a debriefing."

"Ummm." Sherlock stopped stretching and sauntered to the fridge, infuriatingly unmoved.

He poured a glass of juice, then another. He came back and walked by John, thrusting one of the glasses at him.

John blinked. "T-thank you."

Sherlock went over to the window and looked out. "I think that's quite enough for one night, John. I'm tired."

"Quite enough?" John sputtered. "Whose warehouse was that, and what was in there?"

"The usual," Sherlock waved a hand.

"What usual? Drugs? Illegally imported wolverines? Nuclear iphones?" John sputtered.

A smile tugged at Sherlock's mouth. "John," he laughed. "Illegally imported wolverines are worth about twenty pounds a piece. Not nearly valuable enough to justify hiring trained assassins."

John rolled his eyes at the ceiling in a 'give me patience' gesture. "Well, what kind of loot, harbored on the London docks, does justify trained assassins standing guard outside? And how did you know about it?"

And as he said it, it sounded ridiculous. In fact, the guards hadn't looked very much like a trained assassin. The one he'd glimpsed was rotund and balding. Then again, he supposed he shouldn't be closed-minded about what a trained assassin should look like, not in this modern age of equal opportunity.

"Bed, John." Sherlock said it softly. He didn't look at him.

For a moment, John stood there, frozen on the spot. Then Sherlock walked by him, without another word, walked into his room and quietly shut the door.


	9. The Towel

Two days later, John was having a quick breakfast at the table in the kitchen when Sherlock sauntered out of his room.

He was wearing… a towel. It was pushed low on his hips, caught on his hipbones.

John swallowed a bit of coffee the wrong way and choked.

"Esophagus, John. Not the windpipe." Sherlock said, without bothering to glance at him as he walked past.

John hacked out a half dozen coughs before he could get a word out. "I'm fine," John gasped. "thanks for asking."

It wasn't as if he hadn't seen Sherlock scantily clad before. He could be strangely blithe about clothes. But not recently. Not since… the night of the assassins.

Sherlock opened the fridge door and stared into the interior for a long moment. He stretched an arm up, over his head, holding the elbow with his other hand nonchalantly. He yawned. John had an unobstructed, unobserved view of Sherlock's back. He tried not to look at it, but the pale skin was so… there.

God, Sherlock was tall. And so naturally wiry and slim. Narrow but tightly bunched shoulders, long legs, plump ass. People would kill for a physique like that. Hell, he would kill for a physique like that. Like most shorter men, he had a jealous eye for height in others.

"What you up to today?" John asked, trying to sound normal.

"Me?" Sherlock gave up on the fridge and shut the door. "The usual. Research." He walked to the coffee pot and poured himself a cup, then came to the table for sugar.

As Sherlock stood there, taking lumps of sugar and stirring them into his coffee, for all the world appearing oblivious to anything but his own thoughts, John realized that… Sherlock was erect. The front of the towel tented out in an all too familiar manner.

John choked on a swig of coffee again. He hacked, his face turning red.

"What is the matter with you, John?" Sherlock scolded. "I'm trying to think, and your feeble attempts to breathe are very distracting."

John gasped, shaking his hands and head in a 'nothing' gesture. "Fine."

"What do you think the best search term would be for a North African poison?" Sherlock mused, as he stirred the spoon round and round in his cup. "I don't have the name, that's the point. But it's green and it kills by breaking down the cell walls, turning them to jelly. If I enter 'Green poison' and 'jelly' I'll likely be buried in photos of lime jelly molds…"

John stared at him, biting his lip. He wanted to say something, to protest to this… visual assault. But a man did not say to his male flatmate, 'How dare you walk around your own flat in a towel – with a woodie!'"

"If I enter 'North Africa' and I'll be wading through reams of vacation safari photos. 'Pose with the dead lion, honey. Watch the incisors. Now smile!'" Sherlock mimicked. "John, what would you suggest?"

He looked down and John was gone, his breakfast uneaten. Sherlock smiled.

9b. The Towel, discussed

That evening, John studied the man opposite him. Sherlock was sitting crosslegged in his chair, tapping away on his laptop with a blazing speed that made his fingers look like a Russian ballet troupe dancing across the keypad. John had debated all day whether or not to bring it up. He'd definitely decided not to. But something compelled his mouth to open.

"Sherlock…" John began.

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Sherlock?" John said again, louder.

"Yes?" Sherlock answered in a weary voice, not bothering to look up or stop typing.

"This morning…" John cleared his throat. "You were… aroused. When you in the- the towel."

He felt like he's dropped a bomb, but Sherlock didn't bat an eye or even glance up.

"Was I?" He continued typing, his voice indicating that he was barely in the conversation.

"Yes. I'd say you definitely were."

Sherlock shrugged. "It happens." He looked up, a crease between his brow. "Doesn't it to you? It is… normal, isn't it?"

"Yes," John said, patiently, as if explaining it to an eleven-year-old. "Yes, it's perfectly normal."

"Well, then," Sherlock closed the conversation. He shifted in his chair, staring at the screen.

"I just… didn't know it happened to you." John said.

Sherlock glanced up at him. "John, I am a perfectly functional male specimen of the species homo sapiens, a species, may I remind you, that descended from homo erectus."

John grinned. "Well. Jolly good for you, I say."

Sherlock peered into John's eyes for a long moment, in that strangely assessing way he'd been doing lately. He went back to typing.

John cleared his throat. "Just curious… what you think about? When you're experiencing a moment of homo erectus-ness?"

Sherlock tapped thoughtfully at the keys, looking at the ceiling. He didn't reply.

John's pulse was getting erratic. He bid himself to shut his mouth, but he couldn't. Given the events of late, he had to know.

"Do you think about… work? Scientific formulas? Professor Plum in the library with the revolver?"

He laughed. Sherlock didn't reply.

"Dead bodies? They do anything for ya? Women? … Men?" The last sounded quivery. He wanted to bite his tongue.

Sherlock shut the lid of his laptop with a snap.

"John, are you seriously asking me what I think about when I'm… Isn't that rather personal?"

"It is, yes," John nodded. "As a doctor, I'm just curious."

"As. A. Doctor!" Sherlock guffawed with utter derision. John's bluff had been called.

John blushed furiously. "Never mind," he said, picking up a book off the end table and flipping through it. "You're right. None of my business."

"I was about to solve world hunger. But now that you've demolished my train of thought, I believe I'll go out," Sherlock said in an accusatory tone.

"Sorry," John said, blushing more deeply.

Sherlock leapt to his feet. John kept his eyes on his book.

As Sherlock went past him, he suddenly leaned over. His fingertips went to John's wrist in a touch that sent a most unwelcomed thrill through him.

Sherlock spoke slowly and deliciously into John's ear.

"It. Isn't. Women." Oh, god, that silky, vibrating baritone!

Then he was gone, leaving John gasping as if he'd just run up fifty flights of stairs.


	10. That's Great

John was not sleeping. He was barely able to function at work.

He couldn't shake a feeling of guilt and impending doom. He was shaken by the fact that he had gotten erect with a man, in fact, with his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, not once, but several times now. The words 'Kiss me' - thought in a moment of insanity in that damned narrow alley on the 'night of the assassins' - were stuck in his head like a refrain of shame. He could not believe he had thought them. And things had not gotten a lot better since. The best word he could find to describe his recent behavior was… mortifying.

Thank god. Thank god nothing had actually happened, because if his humiliation existed anywhere outside his own head, he'd probably have to jump off the nearest bridge.

He told himself it meant nothing. That night in the alley had been merely a biological reaction to having a body pressed up against him and that… that breath on his ear. His body didn't know the difference between a man and a woman, friend or foe. It merely responded to stimuli. He had nothing to feel guilty about.

But somewhere, deep down, he knew that wasn't the entire truth.

John was sitting at his desk staring listlessly down at a stack of patient folders. Nurse Barrow knocked and entered.

"Dr. Watson, Mrs. Munsen in 412 is complaining that her pain medication needs to be reduced. She says she's groggy."

"Right." John picked up the folders and riffling through them. "Munsen. Take her down to… 50 milligrams on the Demerol." He felt bad. He should have visited Mrs. Munsen this morning. Then she would have told him, not a nurse.

"And we're discharging Mr. Smith today. In an hour. Thought you might want to say good-bye."

"Yes, I'm straight," John said, looking up at her with a forced smile.

Nurse Barrow stared at him. "What did you say?"

John realized what he'd said. He blushed from head to toe. "I said… 'great'. That's… great."

Nurse Barrow gave him a peculiar look and left the room.

John pounded his head on the desk softly.


	11. Retta's Advice

John sat at the bar, his head in his hand, and groaned.

"I'm losing my bloody mind," he said.

His friend, Retta Harper, watched him sympathetically. Retta was an American. She was in her 40's, coarse and garish as a street lamp. By god, he adored her. She knew how to cut through the shit.

"Tell me what Sherlock's done now," she said with a sigh.

"Oh, he's bloody Prince Charming of late. He picks up a sandwich for me while he's out, makes me coffee and leaves it by my chair, saves things from the paper for me, things like medical news, things that have nothing whatsoever to do with him and his needs."

"That is intolerable," Redda murmured sympathetically.

"Oh, but it's not like him, is it? So what's he up to then? And he keeps… touching me. Accidently. Reaching across me for this or that, grabbing a pillow, taking a cup, wiping a crumb off my mouth, 'steadying me' for no good reason. And he… lingers. It's not enough to be sure, never anything you can stab your finger at and say 'Aha, caught you there, you big bloody bastard!'"

"That does sound frustrating," Retta agreed.

"Frustrating?" John said, incredulously. "Frustrated was last week. This week I'm on to a full blown panic."

"You don't think you could be… overreacting?" Retta suggested. "Wiping a crumb off your mouth is hardly a crime."

John shook his head. "You haven't heard the worst of it."

"Go on."

"The worst is… the whispering."

"Whispering?"

"In my ear!"

"The beast!" Retta said, feigning horror.

"This morning he walked by me and ran his hand through the hair on the back of my neck. He leaned down and whispered that I need a haircut." John glared at her. "Which is rubbish! Does my hair look any different to you?"

She shrugged. "Not particularly."

"You see! You see!" John's swirled his finger in the air. "Either I'm losing my mind and imagining it all, or he's deliberately trying to drive me insane. Have you ever seen Gaslight? I think that's it," John said with conviction.

"Is it working?" Redda asked, amused.

"Completely. I've already rung Bedlam to make sure there's a good spot. Preferably with a window and a private loo."

"So he wants your money, then?" she asked.

John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that and fifty p would buy him a sandwich."

"You have… secret information?"

"How could I? He never tells me anything."

"Revenge?" Retta asked.

John considered it. "He might still be angry…" He frowned. He didn't sense anger in Sherlock. And he didn't think Sherlock could be that good an actor. Then again, it was Sherlock they were talking about, master of disguise. He was capable of anything. And that's what was so bloody terrifying.

"Have you considered the possibility that he wants you? Sexually?" Retta asked, studying John's face.

John snorted. "He's not like that."

"He likes women?"

"No. Not especially."

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"He's… asexual", John explained.

"Doesn't sound like it," said Retta with a snort.

John drummed his fingers on the table. He really couldn't bring himself to believe it, despite the evidence of his own eyes the other morning that Sherlock wasn't as… inhuman as he'd thought. Sherlock had never expressed the slightest interest in anyone. He mocked the very idea of relationships. And even if he'd changed his mind, why would he want John? He was a short army doctor who had to grovel to get a halfway decent woman to snog him.

"No," John said again, his voice clipped. "That's not it."

"Do you want him?" Retta asked softly.

John laughed. "You know I'm straight. Arrow-man. That's me."

"That wasn't the question," Retta asked, tilting her head. God, she could look right through him. She waited.

"Don't be ridiculous!" John finally said.

"Ah," said Retta. "Well, you could always ask him what's going on."

"I'd rather be flayed alive," John said.

Then again, things couldn't get much worse.


	12. The Night of the Full Palm

John pretended to read the paper, but he couldn't get Retta's advice out of his head.

Should he? Shouldn't he?

Yes, no. Yes, no. No. Absolutely not. Maybe.

Disgusted at his own indecision, he blurted it out. "Sherlock, we need to talk."

"Does that mean you've finally decided to stop rattling that paper around? Your hands seemed to have relearned their tremor."

If they have, it's your damn fault, John thought petulantly.

"That's not what I want to talk about. It's… the thing is, well - since you came back you've been different. With me."

Sherlock glanced up at him flatly, but went back to his paper. Boring.

"You have, Sherlock," John insisted, "You've been doing things for me. Nice things. You baked me a cake, for heaven sake. I want to know why."

Sherlock gazed at him with an ironically arched eyebrow. "You're complaining because I'm too nice you, is that correct?"

"No, I'm not complaining. But I want to understand why."

Sherlock went back to his paper with a snap. "I'm trying not to take you for granted, John. I am capable of being human, you know."

John felt a strange warmth in the area of his heart. "Well, that's quite lovely, Sherlock, thank you."

Sherlock didn't answer. He was absorbed in his paper. End of discussion.

"I mean, I do appreciate it. Your getting me the odd cup of coffee now and then. It's startling coming from you, I grant you, 'Sherlock Holmes, humanitarian and good deed doer'…" John's voice was mocking. He sounded a bit shrill, but he couldn't stop. "'Would you care to dissect this eyeball? No, please, I insist, after you!'"

Sherlock glanced up at him with a slight frown as if he sounded insane. Valid point.

"No, really, it's rather jolly to find I have a flatmate with a modicum of consideration. But what really puzzles me, Sherlock, what I don't understand… Do you know what it is? Do you?" John's mouth twisted, trying to get the words out. "The touching. Why? Why are you touching me?"

Sherlock look up to the ceiling, frowning slightly. "Touching." He said slowly, as if it were in a foreign language.

"Yes, Sherlock. You're touching me. Quite a lot."

"Am I?" Sherlock looked doubtful.

"Yes, you bloody well are!" John fairly shouted. He took a deep breath to calm down. "And I'm just asking you… why."

Sherlock shoved the paper aside and bounced to his feet with one graceful move. "Show me."

"What?"

"You say I'm 'touching' you… or something. Clearly it's bothering you. Show me precisely what it is that I'm doing."

John sat still, trying to think.

"John?" Sherlock held out his hand in a silent command.

"There, you see?" John asked, waving at Sherlock's hand. "When in the past would you ever have offered to help me up?"

"I'm merely trying to get you to move your arse since you seem disinclined to. I don't have all day!" Sherlock snapped.

John stood up, ignoring the hand. "Very well."

Sherlock's display of foul temper gave him momentary courage. He considered the possibility, once again, that Sherlock didn't realize what he was doing. After all, he was a sociopath, wasn't he? Perhaps the touching was some misguided attempt, like the coffee and juice to, 'not take him for granted', to be 'nicer', to be 'a friend'. Maybe Sherlock had no clue that his touches were… bothering John.

Sherlock took two long strides closer, bringing himself mere inches away. His face was impassive, revealing nothing. He held up his long-fingered hands, palms facing John's body.

"Show me," he said, a challenge in his voice.

John blinked at the hands stupidly. Shit. How had he gotten himself into this situation? He'd meant to have a discussion, make it clear he wanted no more of… whatever it was that had been going on. But now, with Sherlock standing so intimately close, those burning green eyes focused on him, and those lovely strong-delicate hands offered up to him in this way, with carte blanch, as it were, to be placed on his body, it felt... sexual. Yes, definitely some erotic tension in the air.

"Never mind," John said briskly. He stepped back.

Sherlock grabbed his wrist and pulled him back roughly. For a moment, John fell against him, off balance and gasping a protest, but Sherlock steadied him with both hands on his upper arms, putting him exactly where he had been before.

"Sherlock, it doesn't matter. Never mind!" John insisted, his heart pounding.

"You're the one who brought it up," Sherlock said briskly. "You've made a thing of it. Now you're going to show me what you're on about. I. In. Sist."

There was that velvet iron voice again. Damn. It was so… masterful. Sherlock held his hands up, presenting them to John. He was not going to take no for an answer.

Oh, fuck, why did I ever start this? Why didn't I keep my bloody mouth shut? Retta, your advice sucks!

John tried to clear his head. Logic. Rational discussion. This was his chance to clear the air. Sherlock was right. If he was going to whine about it, he should be prepared to back it up with fact. He could do this.

"Very well," John said. "Several times you've sort of slid your… your fingers up my side."

"Did I?" Sherlock said, face disbelieving.

"Yes, Sherlock, you did."

"Show me. Show me how I… Touch. You."

The last two words, touch you, were different, low and dark and sexy as hell. John's body responded to them immediately, to those words and the heat that was now radiating from Sherlock's eyes as he gazed at John, a sexual heat.

Mesmerized, John took Sherlock's right hand in his and pulled it to his side. He ran Sherlock's fingertips slowly up the skin there. The sensation was delicious and he closed his lips tightly to keep from making a noise.

Why, oh why, was this so fucking sexy?

"Like that," John said. He cleared his throat and took a step back, dropping Sherlock's hand.

In one smooth step, Sherlock closed the distance between them again, his eyes glittered with intensity. He held up his hands.

"What else? Judging by your level of distress, there must be more."

"Sherlock, stop it." John said in a tight voice.

"You started it," Sherlock sneered. "Show. Me. What. Else."

His eyes weren't sexy now, they were piercing, demanding. John swallowed.

"OK, alright. The other day, you put your fingers through my hair." John pawed at his own hair. "Why did you do that? Hmm?"

"Show me," Sherlock insisted, thrusting out his left hand.

John should have run right then. But he couldn't. His legs were as immobile as two marble pillars set in concrete and weighed down with chains. He saw himself reach up and take Sherlock's hand, grasping it in his like a life line, twining his finger's around Sherlock's, bringing them to his own neck and caressing himself there, sliding them up into his hair.

What am I doing? Abruptly, he dropped his own hand, but Sherlock's did not go with it. He moved his body infinitesimally closer, his eyes locked on John's.

"Like thisss?" Sherlock asked in that sexy voice. Of their own accord, those long, warm fingers trailed silkily along the back of John's neck in a touch so light, so sensual, so fucking hot, that John nearly arched into Sherlock. He held himself still by the sheerest of will.

"Yes," John bit out, "Why are you doing that?"

"Shouldn't I?" Sherlock asked, sounding puzzled.

"No, you shouldn't!" John said, but he didn't move.

Sherlock's fingers came slowly back down his neck, so light now, they might have been an illusion, teasing his skin. John's eyes closed of their own volition.

"And I suppose you object to this," Sherlock's voice was low and hot, inches away from his ear, as he brought those fingers slowly around John's throat, fingertips oh so light and gliding, light and yet the very tips bearing down with a deliberate pressure that was incredibly sexual. John could feel the touch right on his cock.

"Yes, I do. I object." John panted, unable to open his eyes.

"And this?" The pad of Sherlock's thumb rubbed, in that light-yet-heavy way, at the hollow at the base of John's throat. And then his fingers glided down John's chest, pressing harder now to be felt through his jumper. All John could think was how much he wanted his skin to be bare, to feel those fingers against his naked skin. He clenched his fists at his side. Oh god! Where did he learn how to touch like that?

"No, you can't do that," he somehow managed to gasp out.

"What about this?"

Sherlock's fingers went under the bottom of John's jumper and touched his stomach in that unbelievably sensual way, only the thin fabric of John's t-shirt between them. He was inches from...

John's eyes flew open. He pulled away fiercely. "No! You mustn't do that! That's it exactly!"

"Why?" Sherlock asked, simply.

"Why what?" John sputtered.

"Why can't I touch you like that?" Sherlock repeated slowly, as if John were an idiot.

"Because! Because it isn't done!"

Sherlock cocked his head. "You're wrong there, John. I have it on good authority that it's done quite a lot."

"But… but… but…" John sputtered, apoplectic. "Not between flatmates! Not between two men! Not between two male flatmates!"

Sherlock folded his arms, and tapped his chin with one of those glorious fingers. He rubbed at his full lower lip, thoughtfully, deliberately. John wanted to scream.

"You don't like it?" Sherlock asked, curious.

"No, I don't bloody well like it!" John snapped. "You must stop! It's… it's sexual, okay? It's very sexual, Sherlock. And I'm not… not gay, yeah?" his voice hitched. There. He'd said it. Let the chips fall where they may.

Sherlock's tilted his head, his brow furrowed in doubt.

"But John," he said softly. He took a quick step forward and, swiftly and without error, placed his entire hot palm directly and firmly on John's throbbing erection. "You're lying."

John fled.


	13. Shere Khan

Dr. John Watson slammed his bedroom door shut and then, because there wasn't a lock, propped a chair up under the handle. For a moment he half expected Sherlock and those insistent fingers to come through the solid wood anyway.

God, he wanted them to.

No, he didn't!

When the door did not burst open, when it was clear he was safe, he paced, grabbing his head and groaning.

Well, he'd wanted an answer, and he'd gotten one. It didn't get any fucking clearer than that, did it? But what, exactly, had the encounter proven?

It proved that Sherlock knew damned well what he was doing with those touches. He was doing it deliberately. The innocent lamb was, in fact, a tiger. And he'd touched John right there.

John groaned, falling onto his bed and rolling in agony.

Why? Why, why why?

Why was Sherlock doing this to him? He stuffed a fist in his mouth and bit it. He needed a shower, a very, very cold shower, but he wasn't about to leave his room with Shere Khan out there. And he refused to wank off - he knew where his mind would go if he did, and that he could not allow.

Why? Why is he doing this to me?

John wracked his brain. Revenge? Could this somehow be about their fight, before Sherlock had disappeared? Could he be trying to prove something to John? Or just punish him, make him suffer? How far did he intend to take it?

John didn't know. But knew one thing. He needed space to figure it out, to wrap his head around how everything in his world had suddenly tilted on its axis. He could not let himself get close to his flatmate again, not anytime soon.

Because he did not trust himself. And he certainly, certainly did not trust Sherlock Holmes.


	14. Phone Call to Morocco

Sherlock let the phone ring three times. He hung up. Then he rung back and let it ring twice, hung up.

A few minutes later, his cell phone buzzed.

"My dear," he answered, ironically.

He was lying on his back in his bed. The only light was the streetlamp that shone in through the window. He was still intensely aroused from his encounter with John. God, that was bloody brilliant, if he did say so himself. But alone in his bed, remembering John's panicked face, it was cold comfort.

"My love," Irene replied, equally sarcastically. "How goes the hunt?"

"On schedule," he said. He hesitated. "I've never been so miserable in my life."

"Ah, the highs and lows of love," Irene purred.

"It's working," Sherlock said, "Just as you said."

"Of course it is. No one can withstand the Technique. So what's the trouble?"

"I hadn't expect it to… make me want him so much."

The words were a painful admission. But Irene only laughed.

"Naturally. The seducer is also seduced. Making someone desire you, especially when it's against their will, against every logical thought and prejudice they have, is sheer power. It's the greatest aphrodisiac there is."

Sherlock had to agree.

"It can't go on much longer," he said. "Or I will combust. Sherlock Holmes, a man-shaped silhouette on this bed and three pints of bone white ash. With maybe the odd foot in a slipper left behind."

Irene was silent for a moment. "You're really capable of lusting after someone like that? I wouldn't have thought so."

Because I didn't lust for you, he thought dryly, despite all your tricks.

"Well, some prefer to be the teacher and not the student," Irene said dismissively. "But listen, my love, you must be strong now. Don't give in."

"Umm." Sherlock said, ambiguously.

"Do not give in. He must come to you," Irene warned. "Of his own free will. Remember, you wanted to make him beg for it."

"I remember," Sherlock said. He hesitated. "But… why should I wait? All I'd have to do is pin him down and kiss him. He's randier than a goat. Hair-trigger, I'd say."

"That's precisely what you must not do."

"Surely you don't see it as an ethical matter?" Sherlock said mockingly.

"Heavens, no, darling! It's sportsmanship. Would you shoot a caged elephant?"

Sherlock growled, annoyed. If the elephant was John Watson and shooting him meant shagging him, the answer was yes. In fact caging John was starting to sound very appealing.

"Too bad," Irene said in a disappointed voice. "And I thought you were a worthy pupil."

"A feeble attempt at manipulation," Sherlock said in a cutting voice. "And I thought you were a worthy teacher."

Irene inhaled. Sherlock could nearly hear her gears working.

"Sherlock, anyone can seduce by overwhelming their victim with sheer physical desire, especially if their victim is a male. But sticking your tongue down his throat is not the way to win. You came to me to learn the techniques of a master, not of a Piccadilly tart."

Sherlock squeezed his lips together tightly. "You've made your point. Go on."

"You'll know you've won when the mere sight of you, the sound of your voice, a hot glance, makes him completely sexually ready. But Sherlock, you want his mental submission, not just a biological reaction. He must come to you of his own free will, crawling on his knees, ready to hand over mind, body and soul in order to have you."

"Errmmm," Sherlock hummed. It did have a certain ring.

Then he remembered John's face. Doubt suffused him with icy fingers of dread.

"But what if he doesn't? What if he decides he can't do it, and it drives him away?"

"Oh, dear heart!" Irene said blithely, "That was always a possibility. Surely you knew that."

Sherlock didn't answer.

"You can still back out. You haven't fucked him yet. It's not too late." Irene cooed.

But Sherlock knew that it was. It was far, far too late. Win or lose, this game had to be played to the end.


	15. I Miss You

Sherlock watched the window of Retta's flat on the second floor. It was the third night he'd done it. John hadn't been home since the night Sherlock had, well, crossed that invisible line and showed his hand. Literally.

John was sleeping on Retta's couch. Or rather, he was tossing and turning on her couch. He'd seen John on his way to work – he looked like hell. This morning Sherlock had dressed as a garbage worker to get close to him. John had walked no more than three feet away from him and never glanced up. There were bruised rings under his eyes. His hair was unwashed. He had lost weight.

So had Sherlock. He felt like he was walking around in a skin bag full of broken glass. And really, he did not understand. He had made John want him. So why had he left?

It was all Sherlock could do not to go in there, wrap John up in his arms and drag him home. This business about free will was a royal pain in the arse. Yet he knew Irene was right. He'd set things in motion, now he had to wait for the wheel to come round.

Patience had never been his virtue.

Sherlock looked down at the phone in his hand. Under 'John' there was still nothing, the last text was a question about picking up milk from five days ago, back when John had still lived in the room upstairs, had still smiled at him, had still been willing to speak his name.

Sherlock's fingers clenched with need. He finally allowed himself just one.

I miss you. SH

He saw John's silhouette cross the room to his phone and pick it up. He stood there a long, long time. Then he put the phone down and went back to the couch.

There was no reply.


	16. The Case of the Telltale Shoes

The impasse couldn't last. On Friday morning, John received a text, and it was one he could not ignore.

Lestrade. Murder. Seven Bells Condos, Greenwich. SH

It was as if it were a signal he'd been waiting for without knowing that he was waiting. Without a moment's hesitation, John made his excuses at hospital and was on his way.

On the cab ride over there, John felt giddy with anticipation. He was going to a crime scene. He was going to see Sherlock. They were going to work together. God, he'd missed this! He didn't want to think about the rest of it – this John and Sherlock he knew, and there'd been a ragged, bleeding hole without them in his life.

He arrived to find Sherlock already there, pacing around the empty bedroom that held the body, utterly focused.

"John," Lestrade greeted him as he entered.

"Greg," John grinned, unable to hide his happiness, as inappropriate as a grin might be with a dead body lying on the floor. "What's up then?"

"Jane Doe here was found by a real estate agent this morning. No I.D. No one associated with the condo seems to have the first clue who she is. This place has been empty and on the market for a year." Lestrade sounded frustrated.

"Don't worry," John said cheerfully. He nodded at Sherlock. "He'll find out."

"If he doesn't bite all our heads off first. He's in a god-awful mood." Lestrade looked at John meaningfully. "Mind the gap," he warned, and left them to it.

John frowned a little. Sherlock did look in a black mood. Broody. John was still terribly glad to see him. It had so been hard staying away – excruciating, in fact. And now to see him like this: stalking, taking in everything with those sharp green eyes…. It was everything he'd always loved about Sherlock. For the first time in a long time, life clicked into place again and he felt… at peace.

"Want me to take a look?" he asked.

"If you would, John." Sherlock still didn't look at him. He was squatting to the right of the body, examining the victim's nails.

John stepped in. "Pardon me." He snapped on his gloves and squatted down next to the body. His thigh brushed Sherlock's. He looked up at Sherlock and motioned. Sherlock briefly met his eyes and responded to the unspoken command - placing the victim's right hand in John's. As a matter of procedure, John felt for the pulse he knew he wouldn't find.

As he held his fingertips on the victim's wrist, he frowned. There was something very familiar about that.

John cleared his throat. "Judging by the lack of rigor mortis, I'd say she died this morning. Three hours tops."

John moved to reach over the body, to examine the wound. His thigh pressed harder into Sherlock's. Sherlock stood and moved away.

"Very small entry wound," John said. "Single thrust. It must have been a very thin blade, but long. Something like a stiletto. But rounder."

Sherlock was over by the window, running a gloved finger along the sash with total focus.

"Are you listening?" John asked, pushing to his feet.

"Yes," Sherlock said precisely.

He paused in his examination and searched in his pockets for something.

"Here," John said. There was a magnifying glass in a police kit near the window. John reached it first and held it out. Sherlock took it without a word.

"The window is closed, but the sash is damp," Sherlock said, peering through the magnifying glass. "She came in this way. There are no marks on the sash from the high heels she's wearing. She didn't have them on when she climbed in. She was carrying them. She'd been running, fleeing. She'd needed to remove her shoes."

Sherlock looked back at the body, eyes slightly hooded. "She's wearing them now. In fact she's quite primly laid out. The killer put them back on her. Why? Was he trying to set a tableau? Or did he want to cover the fact that she'd been running from him?"

Sherlock carefully opened the sash and leaned out. "There!" he said, pointing to deeper, square-shaped indents on the outer sash. He nodded to the window of the neighboring condo.

John joined Sherlock at the opening, squeezing in so he could see. "There's no way she could have climbed over here from there. That's at least five feet."

"Look down," Sherlock said flatly. John did. Lying on the ground below was a ladder.

"You don't think she—" John began.

Sherlock spun and raced for the stairs. John raced after him, grinning.


	17. 152 Millimeters

It took Sherlock thirty-five minutes to solve the crime. The victim's name was Emily Miller. She was the sometimes lover of the man who owned the condo three doors down. They'd had a violent row and he'd chased her, in the rain, with a BBQ spit. She'd tried several other condo doors before she found that the one next door was open. When he'd discovered her hiding place, she'd taken a ladder that was being used to paint the bathroom, stuck it out the window and climbed over. It was a desperate move. It didn't save her.

John and Sherlock were in the cab on the way home. Sherlock had not said a half dozen words to John all day, or even looked at him. And it was starting to unnerve him. Now that the tiger had stopped the chase, John found himself unable to keep from prodding it. He couldn't stop glancing at Sherlock. He wanted a look, a laugh, some sighting of the recent, addictively charming Sherlock Holmes.

Maybe he should not have stayed at Retta's with so much unsettled between them. Sherlock was in a dark place.

"Are you going to talk to me?" John finally asked.

"You're going to have to ask," Sherlock said in a cool voice. He was staring out the window.

"Uh… I am asking."

"Not that. You told me not to touch you. So if you want me to, you'll have to ask."

"I don't - want you to touch me!" John protested with a laugh.

Sherlock said nothing, just gazed out the taxi window.

John felt the blood roaring in his ears and a familiar anxious churning in his stomach. Oh, Sherlock was going to be the death of him. There for one hour, he'd almost been happy!

"What gave you the idea that I want you to…" he glanced at the cabbie nervously, but he had earphones in. "to… you know, touch me?"

Sherlock turned his head to look at John. He ran his gaze up and down John slowly, heatedly, then he turned to look out the window again and said nothing.

And, boom, John was fully aroused. He was going to kill Sherlock Holmes.

"What is that supposed to mean? Answer me, god damn it!"

Sherlock shifted in his seat. "When you examined the body, you came around to the right side, where I was standing, despite the fact that the wound was on her left side. You handed me the magnifying glass, the tape and the tweezers, but I was closer to all of those articles than you were. In the past, you would have told me to get them myself. You pressed into the window whilst I was in it, completely unnecessarily. On the stairs, you stayed one tread behind me, not your usual two or three. And you stood approximately one-hundred-fifty-two millimeters closer to me all day than you used to stand. Occasionally two-hundred."

"One-hundred-fifty-two millimeters!" John protested. "That's ridiculous! I did not!"

"Occasionally two-hundred." Sherlock said perfunctorily. He wouldn't look at John.

John snorted a laugh. "God, Sherlock. You see what you want to see."

"I. Do. Not." Sherlock said in a clipped voice.

John drummed his fingers on the door handle. He was suddenly very, very angry.

"So you've decided to listen to me, then? And stop touching me? Good! That works for me!"

Sherlock didn't answer. John glared at him.

"Well? Is that a promise?"

"Until you ask," Sherlock said, with no emotion.

John snorted a laugh. "Well, good luck waiting for that. Because I will never bloody well ask!" He was quiet for a moment, fuming. But he could not hold his tongue.

"So you're not trying to seduce me, then?" John said, sarcastically. "What a relief!"

"John," Sherlock said quietly. "I already have."


	18. Fish on a Line

John pounded on the back of the cabbie's seat. "Stop here, please! Let me out! Now!"

"Don't be an imbecile. It's pouring." Sherlock said, in a voice that finally showed some alarm.

"Now, cabbie!" John insisted, barely able to contain his anger.

The cab pulled over and John got out. It drove away again. Sherlock did not attempt to get out with him. Thank god.

He was in Chelsea, he thought. He'd walk to a subway station. He needed to walk, even in the rain. Hell, he needed a good and thorough soaking.

I already have. The words, spoken so quietly yet so factually in that low voice, echoed through him, into John's gut, cutting painfully into his heart.

Oh, damn him all to hell! He has not!

But as John walked, the cold rain and the exercise helping to clear his mind, he came to admit with a creeping unease that Sherlock had. One-hundred-fifty-two millimeters closer. All. Day.

John rubbed at his stinging eyes furiously. Was he so bloody transparent? Yes, he was. The thought shamed him, made him want to crawl under a rock. Sherlock was right. He'd been so ridiculously thrilled to see the great bloody detective today; he'd followed after him like a love-struck puppy waiting for a pet. But Sherlock didn't have to touch him anymore, didn't have to murmur with that damnably sensual voice in his ear, didn't have to try, because John Watson was already well and truly hooked. He was a fish on the line, and the barb was sunk deep.

He'd fled the flat because, the truth was, he didn't trust himself. After 'the full palm', as he thought of it, he didn't think he could be in Sherlock's presence without… staring, without wanting to touch him, taste him, throw him on the floor in a rage and… fuck the shit out of him. Straight or not straight, he had a bad, bad case of infatuation. With a man. With Sherlock Holmes.

All this time, since the day they met, he'd admired Sherlock, been exasperated by him, delighted by him, felt sorry for him, felt mesmerized by the dazzling light of his mind. And it was completely and unerringly platonic. And because all of that was already there, the minute it was no longer platonic, he was a complete and total goner.

He was in love. God help him.

And Sherlock? He'd been the ice king today. He felt nothing. In all likelihood, he never had.

John's legs weakened with despair. He found an inset doorway and sank into it, out of the rain, curling up in the corner into a ball. He wanted to weep.

It was ruined. It was all ruined. He could never go back now, go back to being around Sherlock like any other guy, to their easy friendship, to their status as 'partner crime-fighters'. That bridge hadn't been burned, it had been blown to smithereens.

And Sherlock had done it. He'd done it deliberately. It had been some kind of… of…

John thought about his fingers on the dead woman's wrist. Pain swirled inside him. He knew exactly what it had been.

Sherlock Holmes had wadded John Watson up into a used rag of a human being, shattering his mental and physical well-being, and then he'd tossed him away.


	19. Confrontation

When John finally made it home that night he was soaking wet. But the rain didn't cool his temper. It cooled nothing. He hadn't wanted to see Sherlock. He'd wanted to pack a bag and leave. But as he strode up the stairs to the flat, and noticed the door to the living room cracked open, he pushed it in without a further thought.

Sherlock was perched in a chair in front of the fire. He was wrapped up tightly in his silk dressed gown as if it were a comfort blanket. His large, bare feet were planted firmly on the chair's seat, bowing his knees. His fingers were steepled in thought in front of his face. He looked paler than usual.

"Good evening, John," He said flatly, without looking up.

"Is it? I hadn't noticed," John said in a clipped voice.

Sherlock did not move.

"Thinking about a case, are you? Back in the saddle?" John's voice dripped with irony.

"No," Sherlock said. "Not a case."

John drew his head back in a faux surprised look. "You could have fooled me. You seemed quite your old self today. Well, here's a news flash. The great Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, will have to find a new assistant. Because I'm through. Might as well put out an advert right now."

Sherlock carefully lowered his steepled hands. They appeared to be shaking.

"John, you're in a rage. I think you should calm down before you make any decisions."

"How observant of you," John said mildly. "Yes, I am IN A BLOODY RAGE!" John spun around, wanting to hit something. There was nothing handy, so he settled for ripping off his soaking coat and hurling it to the floor with all his might. Then he jumped on it with both feet. Repeatedly.

"John!" Sherlock scrambled out of his chair in alarm and backed towards the fireplace.

"YOU!" John shouted, pointing a finger at him. His voice cracked with emotion. He shook his head to clear it, a deadly smile on his face. "What a piece of work. I knew you had difficulty with human feelings like, oh, respect, empathy, compassion but I had no idea. I mean, you did tell me that I was YOUR ONLY FRIEND."

"John..."

"So what do you do, hey? To your ONLY FRIEND. What?"

Sherlock was backed against the fireplace. He put both arms out to either side on the mantle, his fingers searching – for what? A gun? He'd bloody well better find a gun, John thought to himself, murderously.

"You decided to run some sort of experiment on me."

"Experiment?" Sherlock pretended to be confused.

"You deliberately set out to seduce me, just to see how it was done! What was it? A case you'd read about? A study in human sexual reactions? Chemicals? Electrical impulses? Or was it revenge against the fact that I dared to want a WOMAN in my life? Did that set you off your SOCIOPATHIC ROCKER?"

Sherlock's mouth was pressed tight. He looked shocked, guilty, horrified. Good! John's pulse was pounding and he felt – god – a hot sensation in the backs of his eyes. Bloody hell. He wanted to make Sherlock hurt.

Sherlock licked his lips. "It's a logical conclusion, given who I am. But it's wrong."

"No," John said. "It's not! You made me want you. You did it very scientifically, didn't you? I bet there's an excel spreadsheet somewhere that lists the heart rates you took off me after trying out various maneuvers. God – how incredibly stupid I've been. North African safaris! Bloody…. rotund… assassins!" He felt tears sting his eyes. Suddenly his anger turned into something else, a heavy heart, a breaking one.

"You're wrong," Sherlock said softly. "You've narrowed down the possibilities adequately, but you've eliminated the wrong one."

John shook his head, biting his lip. "Even you must see how bloody awful you've been. How unforgivable."

"John, stop this."

John turned his back on Sherlock. "I will never forgive you."

"Please?"

"No. Never."

He walked out the door and pounded up the stairs to his room. He wanted to get out of here before he made a complete pratt of himself and broke down, wanted to get very, very far away.

But when he reached his room and tried to slam the door behind him, Sherlock was already there. He entered the room and slammed the door shut, pressing against it with his back, his arms spread out to block it.

"I'm grabbing my things and I'm leaving. Block that door and I WILL throw you across the room," John warned, and he meant it.

Sherlock's face was deadly white. "You can try. But unless you're willing to kill me, you're not leaving. We're having this out. Right. Now."

"We've had it out. There's nothing more to say." John's voice choked.

He fumbled to get a bag from the closet and stood there stuffing things inside it. But he was barely aware of what he did. Behind him Sherlock spoke.

"John, is it really so terrible? Wanting a man? Wanting… me?" There was something in Sherlock's voice, a break, a crack that sounded for a brief second as if it ran down into the foundation of him.

John stilled. Something hot bloomed in his chest at the sound in that voice. Hope? He crushed it. Pratt.

"What I can't bear is that you lied to me," John said, staring into the half-packed bag. "That you manipulated me. What I can't bear is to feel… like this, knowing that you… that you…"

His voice broke. He couldn't finish. He couldn't look up. Time ticked by.

"That I had no skin in the game, John?" Sherlock said quietly. "That I was bloodless, disinterested, remote? That I didn't mean it? Is that what you find unforgiveable?"

"Yes," John whispered.

Sherlock took in an audibly quivering breath. It almost sounded like a sigh of relief. "And I suppose there's nothing I can say that will convince you otherwise."

"I'm not sure that I can believe anything you say, ever again," John told him.

He looked up at Sherlock then, challenging him, letting him see how deeplyh he meant that. Sherlock's eyes grew wide.

"Maybe I deserve that. But even if there's nothing that I can say, there's something that you can do."


	20. Testing the Hypothesis

Slowly, Sherlock reached his right hand to the tie at his waist and pulled it. John practically heard the fabric as it inched through the tie. And then it fell off and the dressing gown opened. Sherlock pushed each side away from his body to reveal pale, glowing skin, that lean, muscular chest, lean stomach, a pair of silk boxers.

"What are you doing?" John licked his lips. "More tricks."

"No more tricks, John. This is your show. I must have taught you something in the time we've been together. Deduction. Testing hypothesis. Facts, not assumptions. Assumptions will get you into trouble every time."

John tore his gaze away from that gleaming expanse of pale flesh to look up into Sherlock's eyes. "What do you mean?"

"You have a hypothesis. Given that reaching the wrong conclusion could make us both incredibly miserable, don't you think it deserves to be tested?"

John's blood was pounding in his ears. His knees were weak. He was still miserable and angry… but now he was curious. And, yes, turned on. God, Sherlock had turned him into a Pavlovian dog. He wanted to make his flatmate pay for that.

"I see. What sort of test would you suggest?" he asked, trying to sound disinterested.

"Touch me." Sherlock's eyes were boring into his. And they were hot.

John knew what Sherlock was suggesting, and he wanted to call his bluff. Furthermore… he couldn't resist. He was hypnotized, a moth to the flame. With a shudder, John stepped forward. His hand reached out shakily.

His fingertips touched Sherlock's ribs. Sherlock gasped, slightly, his eyes going wide. John felt a small sense of triumph. He would show him what it felt like, damn it. Mimicking Sherlock's incredibly seductive touch, he ran his fingers lightly, oh so lightly, up Sherlock's bare chest, grazing a nipple. It was heaven, heaven to touch that silky, pale skin. It was hell, all the churning emotions it made him feel, the want it ignited inside him.

John's fingers grazed down Sherlock's sternum to his tight belly, slowly, slowly… By the time he got to Sherlock's navel, the boxers were tented with a quite magnificent… erection.

John drew his fingers back, sharply. He stared at it.

"Well? What is your conclusion?" Sherlock asked, through clenched teeth.

John swallowed. "You… want me. You do."

"John, I want you madly," Sherlock said, in that low, sexy voice.

John couldn't speak.

"Dessssperately," Sherlock added, in a voice that was pure sex.

John's jaw dropped open. All the blood in his body rushed to his genitals. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe.

"You have to ask me, John."

"What?" John blinked stupidly.

"Ask. Me." The words were very precisely enunciated, silk on gravel. Sherlock's hands were still pinned to the door. His eyes were blazing.

"Touch me," John whispered.

Sherlock didn't move.

"What do you want me to say?" John pleaded. "I just—I …." He was incapable of coherent thought. But fortunately, his mouth knew what his brain didn't. "Oh, god. Please, Sherlock! Touch me, kiss me, fuck me!"

"Jesus, I thought you'd never say it!" Sherlock launched himself at John, his hands grabbing John's shoulders and he landed them both squarely on the bed.


	21. Relief

Sherlock was lying on top of John, on his bed. His dressing gown was open and the only thing underneath was a pair of very compromised silk boxers.

"Oh, god, " John said, his hands wanting to be everywhere at once.

But mostly, he wanted Sherlock's mouth. He tried to pull him down into a kiss. Sherlock pulled away.

John stilled, feeling a stab of hurt. Sherlock wasn't going to say it was all a joke now, was he?

"I'm here," Sherlock soothed, reading John's face. He raised his hand and stoked John's jaw, gently ran his thumb against John's lower lip. "It's our first kiss. I want to remember every second of it."

He was being romantic. John melted into the duvet. "Please," he whimpered.

Sherlock's lips crooked up in a smile. "You don't have keep begging me. A forklift couldn't get me off you now. Not that I mind the begging." He tugged at John's jumper. "Take this off. I want to feel your skin when I kiss you for the first time."

John half sat up and whipped off his sweater and the t-shirt underneath in an instant. He was so aroused even the air thrilled his skin. He lay back down and Sherlock's hands were on him, on his stomach, his chest. John arched up, trying to put himself even closer to those dangerous hands.

"Oh, God," he groaned. "Sorry, but I can't help the begging. If you don't kiss me now I'll die."

Sherlock pressed him firmly back down on the bed, an arm on either side of John's chest and his hands lightly touching John's chin. He laid partially on top of him, his erection pressing into John's hip. "Lie still," he urged, his green eyes dark with desire. Then he lowered his head and began, ever so gently, to kiss, lick, nibble at the corners of John's mouth, teasing.

John held his breath. It was so good, it was so hot. He wanted Sherlock's full mouth on him, his tongue, but he couldn't help but appreciate and cherish every bit of the tease. He laid perfectly still, letting Sherlock torture him, his lips parted, gasping, trying to hold on to every sensation. And then, finally, Sherlock centered his attention, licked John's lower lip and John could stand it no more. He reached up and grasped Sherlock's head and plied his mouth, his lips, tongue, in that luxurious and sensual rhythm that Sherlock was teaching him.

Their tongues teased, glided, gently sucked… those soft, hot lips… It was the most erotic kiss John had ever had in his life. He wanted it to go on forever.

"Oh, god," he managed to gasp between slow, heady tugging of lips and tongue. "Holy hell, where did you learn to kiss like this?"

"Later," Sherlock purred, and John had to agree, they had much better things to do with their mouths at the moment.

They kissed and sucked and teased, their bodies now side-by-side, clenched in each other's arms, pressing tightly against one other, hands roaming. John could feel Sherlock's cock – large and pulsing, side-by-side with his. He adjusted a bit and they rubbed them together – though Sherlock's silk boxers and his jeans. The sensations at his mouth, the glide of Sherlock's fingers on his skin and the friction on his cock melded until his entire body was suffused with an erotic sensitivity so intense every touch was magnified tenfold. It felt like it could go on forever, this plateau of… insane arousal.

Dear god, he'd never known it was even possible to feel like this.

Sherlock pulled away his mouth, kissing John's jaw, his neck, starting to go lower.

"No," John said, tugging him up. "I need you. I need you right here." Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but he didn't argue. His mouth went back to John's and John thought he'd never get enough of it, never. Kissing Sherlock was the hottest, most sexual thing he'd ever done in his life, and he couldn't bear for it to stop, not even for… other pleasures.

John took the kiss deeper, lathing his tongue on Sherlock's, mimicking fellatio. Sherlock groaned, painfully. His hips thrust, rocked into John's rhythmically, getting more desperate. He pulled his lips away. "John, I need…. I'm not sure what to do."

The words surprised John. Sherlock had been so fucking masterful so far. But maybe Sherlock had never made love to a man before either.

"Let me touch you," John said. He pressed Sherlock's lips back to his and his fingers trailed down, teasing over Sherlock's stomach. As he grazed his fingers over Sherlock's erection the man groaned, pleading, deep in his throat.

That sound. It was almost enough to make John come on the spot.

"Oh, god," John said, breaking lip contact for a moment, "Oh, god." His fingers left Sherlock's cock only long enough to fumble with his own belt buckle, tug his zipper down, desperate to free himself. Sherlock's fingers helped, pushing his jeans aside… and then those finger were wrapping around him. Oh, god!

He reclaimed Sherlock's mouth, desperately. His hand slipped inside the boxers and around Sherlock, feeling that silk-covered steel, so like his own and yet so different, thick, heavy. Sherlock was intensely aroused, impossibly hard, and knowing that it was because of him made John feel happier than he'd ever felt in his life.

Sherlock circled John with his hand, rubbing a thumb deliciously up the underside of him, from root to glans, teasing the tip of him.

This is it. Right there. I've died and gone to heaven. John groaned with a rush of intense pleasure.

He thrust his hips, squeezed Sherlock in his hand, and then the two of them were in a rhythm, belly to belly, stroking, teasing, pulling. Their lips, tongues were locked in a sensual dance. It felt…

"John," Sherlock pulled away abruptly, pushing at his hand. "Stop now or I'll finish."

"Yes," John said, trying to pull that insanely desirable mouth back to his own.

"But… it's supposed to last," Sherlock said, grabbing John's hand fiercely to keep it off him. "I've read about it. There are other things we could do."

John smiled, it was so fucking adorable. He made himself pause and draw a shaky breath. He studied his lover's face for a moment, hand stroking that beautiful jaw.

"Ever since you touched me that night… " he managed in a throaty voice, "all I've been able to… to think about is your hand on me. It's driven me mad. This is what I want. There'll be other times."

Sherlock looked down at John's swollen, well-kissed mouth. His eyes flared with heat. "Yes," he said. "There will."

He slowly lowered his head's to John and took him, claimed him, with a kiss. Fingers found, fingers teased, fingers stoked. The intensity built until it became unbearable. They came together in that way, in that very simple way, side by side, crying out each other's names. And it was heaven.


	22. Confession

John lay next to Sherlock, looking at his face, completely and utterly blissed out. He propped himself up on an elbow.

"So where did you learn to kiss like that?" he asked. "To touch… like that. Christ, Sherlock! I've never been with anyone who could do those things to me. And all this time I thought you were inexperienced."

"I was." Sherlock looked into John's eyes. "I had help. Irene Adler."  
"The Woman?" John sat all the way up. "D'ya mean on that case? The one for the palace? You had sex with her?"

"No." Sherlock looked at the ceiling. "When I went missing for two weeks. I went to see her."

It clicked into place like a lock, how Sherlock had returned different, glowing… laid.

"Well… my god," John said, unable to contain a stab of jealousy. "You and her…. Will that go on? I mean, it's none of my business."

Sherlock looked at him calculatingly. "John, I went to see her to get advice on how to seduce… you."

There was that voice again. Seduce you. It sent a low thrill through John, even though he'd just had the most replete sexual experience of his life. He swallowed. "Oh."

"You convinced me that you had to have sex in your life. The only way you could have what you want, and I could have what I want – which is you in my life, exclusively – was… this." Sherlock waved a hand at their naked, intertwined bodies.

John studied him for a long moment, frowning. "That's why you did this? But… you were never interested in a sexual relationship before. Are you just doing this for me?"

"John," Sherlock said in a patient tone. "Remember. Assumptions. You might have noticed earlier that I've grown quite fond of the idea. In fact, I have no idea why it didn't come to me earlier."

John grinned at him, slow and sexy and cheeky as hell. He was gratified when Sherlock shivered and gripped him tighter.

"What about you?" Sherlock asked, a little breathlessly. "I know you always thought it would be a woman. But… would you mind so awfully if it were me? I can't promise to always hand you a glass of juice in the morning, but I promise to try my best not to be completely obnoxious. Most of the time."

Sherlock did his best not to sound vulnerable. But John could see it in every pore of him. He felt his heart break open. He wanted to gush something inane like I love you. But first, a bit of payback was in order.

"Well, I'm not sure." John pulled away, pretending coolness. "You did seduce me without my consent…."

"John, if I'd come back and said – 'I've got it! We should have sex!' – how do you think you would have reacted?"

"Still – seeking out training from a highly-skilled courtesan… that was playing dirty."

Sherlock looked worried for one more second, then he caught on. He laid back down and smiled.

"I needed the very best weapons for my arsenal."

"Sorry, that's not acceptable to me," John said, with a straight face. "I refuse to go to bed with anyone who has better tricks than I do. So you'd better tell me everything Irene taught you. And take your time. You know I'm a slow learner."

Sherlock smiled a devilish smile. "Very well. I'm happy to share. The first weapon of seduction is… touch…" Sherlock ran his fingers in that insanely sensual way up John's chest.

"I think I figured that one out," John said with a pleasant shiver. "Dear god, that's effective."

"Then taste," Sherlock murmured. He ran his finger across John's lip, teasing his tongue with the tip of it.

John thought about the cherry icing, the taste of Sherlock's finger in his mouth. "Taste works," John said in a small voice.

"Visual. Stimuli…" The way Sherlock said those two words would be banned in 20 counties. John remembered those open shirts, rolled up cuffs, dewy lips, that day with the towel, Sherlock's lean, lovely back, that tented erection. Oh, yes. Goddamn. Visual stimuli. Check.

"Words themselves, planting the suggestion," Sherlock said, his voice low. "Bed, John. It's not women."

"Good god, that's evil," John gasped.

"Aural sensation." Sherlock leaned up to dribble the words like molten honey into John's ear. "Do you know," he continued in his velvety baritone, "This is what gets you going the most? Your pulse goes from 75 to 111 when I touch you. But when I do thisss…" the sibilant s vibrated against his sensitive ear, and it shot like a hot bolt of lightning down into his cock, bringing him, incredibly, back to full arousal. "It's. One. Forty. Five."

"Oh, bloody hell," John panted, flopping back onto the bed. "I never stood a chance!"

Sherlock laughed in a self-satisfied way and kissed him fiercely. But when he drew back his face was haunted. "You did though. When you went to Retta's I thought you'd bolted. It was a calculated risk. The worse one I've ever had to take. If I'd lost you…"

And for the first time, John understood that it had cost Sherlock something, too. Maybe more than he would ever admit.

"Thank you," John said softly. "Thank you for being the one to see it. For taking that risk, for being a total arse, and for seducing me silly."

"My pleasure," Sherlock said, holding his eyes in a gaze that poured trust and love and lust and a million other thing too exquisite to name right into John's soul.

"I love you," John said. "Now shut up and kiss me."


End file.
